


Day of Rest

by orphan_account



Category: Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Angst, Comfort, Dominance, Drinking, Longing, M/M, Mentions of Blood, Submissive, Wings, bubble baths, of a type
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-23
Updated: 2017-10-23
Packaged: 2019-01-22 01:11:44
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,572
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12470156
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: Crowley needs to unwind. In a very specific way. And, after a while, it becomes part of Aziraphale's routine.





	Day of Rest

Crowley comes over on Saturdays.

Saturday nights, to be specific. He usually comes bearing wine, or the ability to summon wine from places he knows it won’t be missed, and an air that whatever happens will be news to him, unexpected as it is inevitable, a mystery he never sees coming.

Perhaps it is better for both of them if they keep up the façade for as long as possible on evenings like these – and if it makes it easier for Crowley, Aziraphale is more than happy to let this be the routine.

“White?” Aziraphale accepts the bottle thrust at him. “Seems more like midweek fare, my dear…”

Crowley makes a noncommittal noise, and flicks his fingers out, opening the cardboard box with the tomato and roasted garlic bread inside, so the herbs and steaming warmth permeate the atmosphere. “Anything to avoid that frankly elastic Bordeaux from the other week.”

Last week. He means last week.

Aziraphale corks it, and they settle in front of a film they’ve seen one hundred times before, usually from new. This time, it’s _Singin’ In The Rain_. Aziraphale always liked Gene Kelly. Crowley claims not to enjoy it, but somewhere around _Broadway Melody_ (and the fourth bottle) a slow smile grows up one side of his face, and his glasses slip down so he can see the technicolour without the dull cast of his shades.

“I met her, once,” he nods at Cyd Charisse. “Briefly.”

“Oh?” Aziraphale looks over, readying a sniff of contempt.

“Barely got a word in, never mind anything else,” Crowley snorts. “Too many star-struck young men and women elbowing me out of the way. Like being harassed by excitable flamingos who knew exactly where to aim for your ribs. Hardly worth the effort. Besides, nothing I could think up came close to what Hollywood was doing at the time.” He swills his drink around. “Poor Judy Garland.”

Aziraphale smiles, sadly, and empties the rest of the bottle into Crowley’s glass.

When the film is over, and the wine drained, they go upstairs.

The first time this happened, Aziraphale didn’t think to ask why Crowley had him by the sleeve. Why he was dragging him up the staircase, albeit gently. Why he was letting them both into Aziraphale’s dusty and barely-used bedroom.

And when Crowley stopped, and let go, and went to the buttons on his own shirt, Aziraphale’s mind finally caught up, and he stood, riveted to the spot, watching as the demon’s skin was revealed button by button.

Crowley’s face never lost the expression it started with – the sort of blank unquestionability that made Aziraphale’s heart throb and his arms wash over with goosebumps. Crowley had taken Aziraphale by the arms, and pulled him forward, though paused, a breath away from a kiss.

Aziraphale completed the motion, tasting Crowley’s relief at the angel’s decision to continue, at how he hadn’t had to force or tempt his friend into this. But the truth was, Aziraphale couldn’t consider _not_ doing this. Not now, and not ever.

So tonight, when Don and Kathy get their happy ending, the two ethereal (alright, one occult) beings go upstairs of their own accord, neither pulling the other, but moving like clockwork all the same.

They don’t strip one another’s clothes off in a frenzy. And, unlike the first night, Aziraphale moves to Crowley, first. He pushes the demon’s jacket off, and drapes it neatly over the chair before undoing his buttons, one by one, sliding the plastic discs through the holes with their machine-stitched edges until the shirt can be pulled free from Crowley’s arms, and Aziraphale can fold it quickly.

Crowley takes his own glasses off, then, sending them flying to the bedside table with a twitch of his finger. And then he makes eye contact with the angel.

And, like every night they do this, Aziraphale thinks he might discorporate from that look alone. It isn’t just Crowley’s naked eyes – it’s the vulnerability of them, of the action. It’s asking something of Aziraphale – asking him not to recoil in fear or disgust.

As if he ever could.

As if he hasn’t wanted this in the deep recesses of his heart for longer than he’s allowed himself to acknowledge.

Aziraphale kisses him.

And Crowley _melts_.

They don’t always have sex. Not every time they do this. Sometimes, Crowley feels like spun sugar, like he could break or crack or dissolve at the slightest rough handling. On those nights, they end up under the covers, silently embracing, or else murmuring nothing in particular in the tent of duvet covers and warmth coming from naked bodies.

Tonight, is not one of those nights.

Somewhere along the way, they have both lost their trousers and shoes, though they are to be found neatly folded on the ottoman in the morning. Crowley is on his back, his amber eyes shining as if he might cry, if he still had the ability. He stares at the ceiling as Aziraphale kisses every part of him he can touch with his lips, from his forehead down. Down, over his eyebrows, his temple, those razor cheekbones, his jaw, down to his neck, in the cups of each collar-bone and over to the twin bumps at the base of his throat.

The tension slowly drains from Crowley’s body.

Tension, or fear, or something nameless that has held onto him all week… it begins to let go. His shoulders drop. His breathing evens out.

Aziraphale’s kisses are joined by scratches, his nails gently raking over Crowley’s chest, his nipples, the tops of his arms where there are small patches of dry skin that feel almost like scales. Crowley lets out a small cry as Aziraphale’s scratches deepen and drop lower, over his sides and down to the tops of his thighs, each hair pinging from under the fingernails that raise sensation in Crowley and make Aziraphale feel like he is skating on thin ice.

When they do finally come together, it is effortless. As it was the first time. There’s never been any pain. Only a moment of shame from Crowley – Aziraphale has never felt shame since he was brought into being – and even that is gone, now. On that first night, Aziraphale had been so afraid. Or hurting Crowley, of doing it wrong, of not giving the demon what he wanted – nay, needed – from him.

Until it became clear.

Because what Crowley needs from Aziraphale is release. And for someone else to do the _doing_ for him. The doing being the active - the action. Crowley wants to have an experience without having to be the curator of it. After six thousand years, he is so, so tired.

So, gentle is not the approach Aziraphale takes.

There are scratches. Hair is pulled. When wings unfurl, they are held onto hard, the bones within threatened with breakage even as Aziraphale fucks into Crowley’s willing body with the force that would break a human partner into pieces.

Blood drips onto the bedclothes.

Afterwards, they sleep. Both of them.

Aziraphale wakes early, of course, and lies as still as he can (which is extremely still), letting Crowley rest. The only sign the demon shows of his rough treatment is by his hair, which is on end. The scratches and bruises are gone, as are his wings, though Aziraphale’s remain.

He arches them over Crowley, extra limbs for an extra embrace.

And when Crowley wakes, Aziraphale kisses him again. Gentler than before. Because the time for harsh treatment is over, and now Crowley needs to be taken care of. The angel pulls the bedclothes over the dozing demon, and draws him a bath. He expects there to be bubbles, so there are, and he expects the temperature to be perfect, so it is.

Crowley walks himself to the bath – it is something he does without being told, and it breaks the hold he let Aziraphale have over him the night before.

Aziraphale washes his hair.

“I can see why he rested on the seventh day,” Crowley sighs, the lather rinsed from his hair.

“Perhaps not in quite the same fashion, dear, but…” Aziraphale shifts on the edge of the bath. His wings are gone, now, levelling out the playing field between them both. “But, yes. Everyone needs rest. Or, as I understand it, to, er, unwind.”

Crowley draws a shape in the bubbles. If Aziraphale were being romantic, he might think it was a heart.

He doesn’t allow himself to think that.

When the water is drained away, they go back into the bedroom. Sometimes, they have sex again. Slower, usually with Crowley on top, straddling Aziraphale and gaining his wicked grin back second by second, and it’s as though the night before where the demon cried and bled and let himself be used… never happened.

Not today, though.

Crowley dresses with a thought, ironing out the creases with a hand, before giving himself a glance in the mirror.

Only then, are the sunglasses replaced.

“See you around, angel,” he says, shooting Aziraphale a smirk, and finger-guns, before showing himself out.

Aziraphale watches him go, watches him from the window as he walks to the Bentley and sits inside it for a good minute before starting the engine, and pulling away.

The angel goes back to the bed, and touches a finger to the dark, red-brown lines of blood on white cotton.

He will change the sheets on Saturday morning.


End file.
